I Hang You Around My Neck
by Windblown.child
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has fallen, leaving John Watson to make his way alone in the world. Somehow, he manages to survive the loss of his best friend. (Not slash)
1. The Fall of a Good Man

Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.

This is primarily based off of the most recent BBC version staring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman.

* * *

I Hang You Around My Neck

John Watson was empty after the nameless stranger pulled Sherlock's thin wrist from his hands. He let himself be steered down the street and into St. Barts but he didn't actively hear the doctors and nurses rushing around. His brain was stuck watching the detective tumble through the air, coat flapping in the wind. The sickening crunch echoed in his head until he wanted to puncture his eardrums.

Lestrade shook the ex-army doctor and called his name a little louder before John responded. The blond blinked as if surprised to see him and it made the DI's chest hurt. When the call had come in that Sherlock Holmes had jumped off of the roof of St. Barts, he had sunk into his chair and stared at the phone in the same way. They had to be wrong, Sherlock wouldn't have committed suicide.

"John?" The doctor made a noncommittal grunt and tried to pace but Lestrade wouldn't let go of his arm. "What happened? They said Sherlock jumped."

"He didn't jump!" Anger flared brightly in the blond's face before it crumpled again. "He fell."

Watson was staring off into the distance in shock again and Lestrade let go of his arm. Hours later, after dealing with the dead body on the roof, the DI returned to find Mycroft leaning on his umbrella looking defeated and John in a chair in front of him. Molly appeared before Greg could address the elder Holmes, wringing her hands.

Clearly she had been crying. "Y-you can see him. If you want."

Mycroft nodded sharply and followed the small woman, umbrella clicking on the floor with every step. To Lestrade's surprise, John pushed himself out of the chair and stiffly followed.

The morgue felt cooler than usual to John and he nearly froze in the doorway upon seeing the shape of a body under a sheet. He knew who was under the cloth and he didn't want to admit it. Watson had put his faith in the detective, and that faith had been shattered in a few loaded seconds. It was all wrong.

He couldn't bear to see the sheet pulled back and Sherlock's dead grey eyes staring at the ceiling again. Before the doors had closed behind Lestrade, John was pushing them open and escaped into the hallway. The walls seemed to close in around the ex-army surgeon so he closed his eyes and focused on breathing. Breathing was simple. Breathing was calming.

"_Breathing, breathing is boring."_

The whimper of pain caught in his throat. When he opened his eyes again, Molly was standing before him, shuffling her feet nervously. Suddenly she held out a bundle of cloth. "Here. I nicked this before they took it for evidence. H-he would have wanted you to have it."

Sherlock's scarf dangled from her hand and John carefully took it. The blue cloth was soft between his calloused fingers and he just stared at the faint stripes. Watson hadn't had much chance to touch the scarf before as it was always around the detective's neck or stuffed in his pocket. Seeing it now was almost surreal and he tucked it away and made his way towards the elevator.

* * *

If there was one thing that John was good at, it was surviving. The former army doctor pulled on a mask the day that Sherlock Holmes fell and no one seemed to see through it. They moved on with their lives as the days added up, and John acted like he did too.

Upon arriving back at 221B, the doctor calmly made his way to his room to pick up his dog tags. When he had been invalided back to England, the small pieces of metal had told him who he was, even if he didn't know it any more. The same crushing weight was returning and he needed the support but no matter where he looked in the flat, he couldn't find them. They should have been sitting in his bedside table, next to the spare clip for the Browning, but they weren't there. He could have ordered a replacement set, but it didn't seem right. Sentiment and all that.

"_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."_

There were occasions that John was tempted to believe Sherlock's opinion on sentiment. And then he would look up at the wall and see the bright yellow smiley face full of holes or the skull on the mantelpiece. Sometimes, in the very earliest hours before dawn, he would wish he was back in his old bedsit where the sounds of a violin were foreign. But every time he tried to pack up Sherlock's belongings, his hands shook and John put everything back where it was. The doctor was glad that there wasn't an official funeral, only a text from Mycroft telling him where the gravestone was and that all of Sherlock's belongings were his to do with as he pleased. He finally went to see the marker a week later.

Even standing at the grave of his best friend, Watson couldn't believe that everything he had been told was a lie. No one would ever convince the former soldier that the great Sherlock Holmes was a fake. If only there could be one more miracle to add to surviving Afghanistan, the pool, and chasing criminals through London. The heel turn twinged in his leg, but stubbornness kept the limp from showing until he got back to Baker Street.

Lestrade was the first to notice his limp had returned. Without cases to bring them together, they met every Friday at a pub and watched football. Greg would grumble about the office and his ex-wife while the doctor listened. John would give anything to have Sherlock back to complain about. After living with the detective, nothing really seemed bothersome any more.

"I thought Sherlock cured your limp."

It was an unspoken agreement that no one mentioned the tall man, but they had enough pints between them that it didn't really matter. John shrugged his shoulders and emptied his glass.

"He did for a while."

"_It's just a trick. A magic trick."_

They ordered more drinks and didn't mention the cane leaning against the table again. John honestly hadn't been surprised when his leg gave out on the way to Tesco. If anyone could heal solely through force of will, Sherlock could. But now that he was gone, the pain took his place again.

John didn't consciously notice that he had grabbed Sherlock's scarf on the way out the door. The weather was miserable, raining in great silver sheets so thick the doctor wondered how the sun would ever break through again. Watson almost liked the rain this way, it made him anonymous as everyone rushed by on their way to the shops, or work, or school. No one gave him a second glance. Just another nameless figure on the backdrop of London.

Just like the cane, the blue scarf became a part of the doctor whenever he ventured out of Baker Street. He visited his old therapist for a few months because Mycroft insisted on John talking to someone who wasn't involved with Sherlock. When she recommended that he leave Baker Street, John realized she wasn't focused on helping him understand why the detective fell but on moving on. Forgetting. The ex-army surgeon interrupted her long winded spiel about blogs and walked out of the office.

"_I'd be lost without my blogger."_

John knew he was lost without the detective to blog about. Nothing happened to him before meeting Sherlock and now that he was gone, there was a surplus of nothing. The doctor thought about his dog tags again and where they might have ended up. He spent a weekend cleaning the flat from top to bottom searching for the stamped metal circles to no avail. Mrs Hudson offered to bring up boxes to take away the detective's things but Watson shook his head and put the skull back on the mantle.

Body parts and poisons were put in the trash but all of the papers and books that had been scattered around found homes in shelves and files. The thought of Sherlock trying to find anything in the clean flat brought a wistful smile to his face for a moment. Despite being alone in 221B, Mrs Hudson refused to allow him to pay for Sherlock's half of the rent. Something about it already being taken care of, just as long as he wanted to stay.


	2. A Doctor

Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.

This is primarily based off of the most recent BBC version staring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman.

* * *

I Hang You Around My Neck

An entire year had passed before John realized how long it had been. It didn't hurt any less now than 12 months ago to be reminded of the consulting detective. There were days that Watson hated the tall man for striding into his life and dragging him along on cases and then he couldn't imagine where he would be if he hadn't. The street looked so far away from the rooftop and the pavement looked like every other bit in London.

Watson stared down at the ground and imagined the swooping tingle of free fall. Movement out of the corner of his eye pulled his attention from the street below. Molly slowly approached the edge of the roof next to him, but didn't speak. John felt bad for the young woman, her crush on the detective had been painfully obvious from the first moment he met her. Yet Sherlock had treated her with nothing more than casual dismissal except when he manipulated her.

"I called him a machine."

The sound of his voice startled the coroner and she turned wide brown eyes towards him. "I'm sorry?"

"One of the last things I said to him."

_"Alone is what I am. Alone protects me."_

"Oh." She nodded and silence drawled out between them like taffy. "You're still trying to figure out why he did it."

John almost didn't want to acknowledge the words but slowly he nodded. "He lied to me. Before he jum-fell. Said he was a fraud."

"Do you believe him?"

"No."

"Don't give up on him."

Before John really heard the quiet words, the woman had left him alone on the rooftop. He ducked his head and tried to breath in the scent of Sherlock from the scarf but it was long since gone. He did believe in the detective. Always would. The pavement didn't look any different from any other piece in London and he slowly limped away.

_"That, ah— thing that you did. That you, um, you offered to do. That was, um... good."_

Everything reminded him painfully of Sherlock Holmes but John didn't flee from the memories. He examined each one, turning it over in his mind, sorting out the hurt and anger. They had too short a time together, but he wouldn't trade it for anything. The first day he met the detective, Mycroft had accused the doctor of being very loyal, very quickly. If only he had known just how true that was.

"Charlie!"

A woman shouted across the street as John limped towards Tesco. "Someone grab him!"

Watson turned towards the panicked voice and caught sight of a child sprinting towards the street. Instinct kicked in and he dropped his cane to grab the young boy by the collar and pull him back before he ran into traffic. The child screamed bloody murder and kicked his short legs as the doctor hefted him off the ground. Sharp little feet assaulted his shins and the ex-army doctor looked for the mother.

"Oh thank you so much!" A pretty blonde woman rushed up, arms outstretched for the boy. "Charlie, you scared me half to death."

Caught and unable to get away, Charlie pouted. "Your boy is a handful, I see." John gratefully placed the child in the woman's arms and picked up his cane.

"Oh, he's not mine, I just watch him most days." The blonde woman shifted the boy on her hip and held out her hand. "I'm Mary."

"John, John Watson." For the first time in months the spark of recognition didn't light in her face.

"Won't you let me buy you a coffee in thanks?"

John didn't feel particularly social, but her smile was honest and Mrs Hudson would frown spectacularly at him if he declined. "Alright, so long as I don't have to chase this one down again."

Charlie stuck his tongue out but Mary only smiled wider. "Tomorrow afternoon, 3 o'clock? Over there?"

"Sounds perfect."

After three hours of just chatting about anything and everything, Mary leaned closer over the table and hesitated slightly. "Um, I've had a really lovely afternoon and I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner?"

For a moment John was too stunned to answer. Women never asked him out, especially not funny,pretty ones. A voice in the back of his mind piped up and shouted that even now, he would still make her compete with Sherlock. He truly wished that he had met Mary before he had been swept away by the detective.

"I'm sorry Mary, but I don't think I'm ready." Despite how badly it must sting the blonde, he knew he was doing the right thing. "I've only recently lost my partner."

"Oh. Oh!" Her eyes went wide in shock. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to - I wouldn't - I just..."

"It's alright, you couldn't have known."

Mary Morstan walked out of his life just as easily as she had walked into it but John felt lighter for the words he had chosen. Even in just 18 months, Sherlock had become his partner in everything except bed. They were codependent to an almost extreme degree but instead of slowly self-destructing, they were made the stronger for it. Holmes had taught John how to live in the hidden battlefield of civilian life, and in return he taught the tall man how to be human. Absentmindedly, the ex-army surgeon fingered the scarf around his neck and wished it still smelled like the younger man.

_"I don't have friends. I just have one."_

By the time that a second year had passed, John had come more to terms with the fall and anger ruled his actions less. He would never know why Sherlock had chosen to do what he did on the roof of St. Barts Hospital, but now he recognized how important the younger man was. There was truth that the more things change, the more things stay the same.

Calm settled over the doctor's life. Locum work was regular enough to keep him busy and the sting of losing Sherlock hurt less. He no longer stared at his pistol at night, remembering. He would never forget killing a man after only 24 hours of knowing the detective, or Sherlock scratching his head with the muzzle at the swimming pool, but he had no desire to add another memory to the gun. John wasn't at peace with the detective's death, but he felt like he was in a holding pattern, waiting for something to happen. It was the slow build of the calm before a storm.


	3. And a Detective

Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.

This is primarily based off of the most recent BBC version staring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman.

* * *

I Hang You Around My Neck

The first signs of the coming storm came in the way of a police tape strung across the front of a dark alleyway. John approached like any normal citizen would only to have the plastic ribbon lifted by Sergeant Donovan. She realized her mistake the moment Watson took a rolling step closer with his cane but didn't lower it again.

"Er- You might as well have a look."

He hadn't seen much of the woman since escaping police custody with Sherlock but he was pleased to see she looked apologetic even years later. It would be easy to hate Sally for the part she played in the detective's fall, but she wasn't to blame. She was only a minor pawn in the overall scheme of things.

Lestrade was surprised to see the doctor appear at his side as Anderson studied the body. "What're you doing here?"

"Donovan let me in. I can go, if you like." John waved a hand over his shoulder at the mouth of the alley.

"No, it's no problem." Greg eyed Watson for a second. "Actually, maybe you could take a look."

"What would I notice that your boys wouldn't have?"

"Sherlock always found things we missed."

_"As always you see but you don't observe."_

"Well I'm not him, am I?" He hadn't meant it to be harsh, but it sounded that way regardless.

"I know you're not, but - erm, he did praise you on more than one occasion." The silver haired man scuffed the toe of his shoe on the pavement.

John blinked at the inspector in disbelief. "He wouldn't have said that."

"He did, at least twice. I didn't believe it at the time, but he was better with you."

Sometimes John forgot that Lestrade had known Sherlock five years longer. "I won't be able to deduce the things he could."

"No one else could."

When Anderson straightened up, he shot the DI an incredulous look. For over two years the forensics expert had been left king of the crime scenes only now he felt threatened again. The brunet couldn't hide his quick sweep of the alley for a tall man in a long black coat, however.

"I'm surprised it took you this long to start sticking your nose where it didn't belong again." Anderson sneered at John.

Lestrade gave his subordinate a warning glare but the doctor kept his face impassive. The brunet was a cockroach of a man and not worth his effort. A sad little king of a sad little hill. Though, it didn't stop Watson from planting his cane on Anderson's foot and leaning hard as he approached the body.

John had to take a deep breath when he stood only a meter from the body. He suddenly wished he was back at the first crime scene with Sherlock, stiff legged and cringing at the amount of pink. He never exaggerated how fantastic he had found the deductions. Finally he got himself back under control and knelt next to the corpse.

His training as a doctor took over and cataloged everything about the body as he saw it. Male, athletic, 6'1, dead less than 3 hours, single stab wound to the base of the skull, very little blood, dead before he hit the ground. All very obvious things that Sherlock would have mocked him for in the past. Instead of following that line of thought, John focused on the minutiae of the scene before him, on things the detective had explained to him before.

Starting at the feet, Watson focused on observing, not just seeing. Heavy boots, comfortable but not overly worn on the soles. The leather on the toes, however, were scuffed and very damaged. The clothes were dark, nondescript, and stain free. No wallet, everything was tucked in and of smooth material. Vaguely, the ex-army surgeon realized he would have been as soundless as possible without standing out.

Further examination revealed strong hands, well developed muscles and calluses on the right index finger. No rings, but tanned to the wrist. The back of his neck was much darker than his face and speckled with sun spots. Pulling back the cloth at the collar revealed a strong metal chain holding dog tags. The metal was damaged deliberately to destroy the identifying information but they had clearly been worn regularly for several years.

John finally levered himself back to his feet and pulled off the latex gloves he had borrowed. At least he hadn't been forced into one of those ridiculous blue jumpsuits again. Greg didn't look overly hopeful, but he volunteered what his team had determined.

"Our best guess is a mugging. This bloke picked the wrong alley and got stabbed for his trouble."

The doctor rolled the postulation over in his mind for a moment, eyes falling to the wound again. "That's not right." He muttered half to himself. "There would have been defensive wounds probably, and why the back of the neck like that?"

"Maybe he didn't have time to fight back?" Greg shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Something that felt slightly like Sherlock tickled the back of his mind and John ticked off what he knew. Tan from working, toes scuffed, and neck constantly exposed to sun but not his face. The tags screamed army, but the only people he had known with that type of sun damage were snipers.

"Oh!" For one brilliant second, the doctor knew how it felt to be Sherlock and have all the pieces fall into place. "He was in the army, dishonorably discharged, but he kept up as a sniper. Only he was the one assassinated instead."

Lestrade stared blankly at the shorter man as if he'd just gone insane. "Um, then where's his wallet?" It was simply the first question that had come to mind.

"He didn't have one. Too easy to be identified if something happened."

"A hit though? How'd you figure?" The words weren't laced with the same incredulity as when he addressed the detective, but John would have to work for it.

"The tags are a dead giveaway for army, the damage to them was done when he was discharged. I say sniper because of the sun spots on this neck but not his face and the toes of his boots are scuffed from laying on rooftops and the like."

A deep breath for the last bit of evidence. "The stab wound to the back of his neck was well performed. No tearing on the sides, minimal blood loss, the blade wasn't too long or thick, and whoever did it knew exactly where to stab without breaking the blade between the vertebrae. Definitely not the work of a junkie."

"Sure you're not channeling Sherlock?" The detective inspector gaped and pulled out his notebook.

John blinked and suddenly felt like himself again. Despite Lestrade's obvious awe at his conclusion, Sherlock would have made some comment about missing all of the obvious signs. It didn't make him feel any less accomplished, however. "I'm sure he would have made allusions to childhood trauma, three cats, and vegetarianism in a quarter of the time."

The two men made small talk while the rest of the squad cleaned up the crime scene and catalogued evidence. As the police tape was removed, John bid the DI good night and began his trip back to Baker Street. After only a few steps, something yellow caught his eye on the filthy bricks. Closer inspection showed it to be graffiti and he recognized the paint.

It was impossible to ignore bright yellow paint after what he dubbed the blind banker case. For weeks after, the doctor had seen spray painted Hangzhou numbers all over London. It would be peeking out from under a poster or on the boot of an abandoned car and a shiver would slide down his spine. Most of the time it was his imagination, a bit of yellow in an artist's tag, or the wrong color entirely. This time he wasn't imagining it.

The words were carefully shaped, not overly large to fill the wall, nor too small to be readable. For a long time the doctor couldn't believe what he saw.

"**Moriarty was real.**"

Three words knocked the doctor off kilter and he sorted through the implications. Someone else believed Sherlock wasn't a fraud, that Moriarty had engineered the fall. They knew that John hadn't been an accomplice to the con of the century and they openly supported the detective.

"_Don't make me into a hero, John. Heroes don't exist. And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."_

John began to spend more time out of Baker Street, walking through London during the day. He wouldn't pick a destination, but rather wander the through streets and alleys wherever his feet took him. Everywhere he limped along, the doctor scanned the walls and bins for more graffiti.

Three days of wandering and Watson found another tag. Someone had painted over the first letter in the sentence, but the rest of the message was as clear as day.

"**Richard Brook is a lie.**"

Elation filled the former army surgeon and he walked a little straighter down the streets of London. The papers could pull Sherlock's name through the mud all day, but no one would ever convince him to give up on his best friend. John knew that the detective had difficulties with emotions and sentiment, and often said the wrong thing, but despite his protestations, John Watson would always be on his side.

One of his daytime wanderings brought the doctor to the skate park he visited with Sherlock while on the smuggling case. At the time, it seemed that every vertical surface was covered with layer upon layer of paint. Nothing intelligible could be made out in the visual diarrhea of overlapping words and symbols

But when he limped around the cavernous room, scanning for yellow paint, he was brought up short. One wall had been painted over in smooth black all the way to the edges. That alone was odd enough where wall space was at a premium but even more shocking was the portrait.

A life sized aerosol rendition of Sherlock was done in white, complete with Belstaff coat and collar flipped up. A dark blue scarf was also painted around his neck, but where's there should have been pale eyes, there was a single horizontal stroke of paint. The Hangzhou number one should have ruined the portrait, representing the banker case again, but a step closer revealed careful writing in black.

"**I believe in Sherlock Holmes.**"

The mark was fitting, John decided, slowly pulling out his phone for a picture. Something told him that no one would allow the wall to be painted over again when he noticed what could only be described as a small shrine at the base of the wall. It was all detritus of the city, but the doctor recognized it as the heartfelt sorrow of the homeless at the detective's loss.

A grimy teddy bear, missing an eye and a sporting a huge tear in one leg seemed more real than the cold stone marker that bore his name. The last thing that the doctor saw was two more words above the shrine done in the same dark blue of Sherlock's scarf.

"**Watson's warriors.**"

Not only where they mourning for the detective, but they were supporting the blogger as well. After making sure the photo had come out clearly, John gave the wall a short salute and turned on his heel to leave. No matter what anyone said to him on the street or slipped through his letterbox, there were people who believed in the detective as much as he did.

In light of the underground support, John wanted to see another of Sherlock's fans so he turned towards Angelo's. He hadn't liked taking advantage of Angelo's insistence at their meals being free, but the doctor knew it was one of the rare places he could get Sherlock to eat in public. The doctor smiled to himself when Billy gestured to their usual table in front of the window automatically.

Angelo practically bounded up upon seeing Watson's blond hair and shook his hand vigorously. "I haven't seen you in ages, Doctor."

"Ah, well, I haven't been out as much." John smiled at the host's infectious grin.

"And that is such a shame." The large man mocked frowned. "I need all the pretty faces I can get in here. I'll bring you your usual."

And the smiling man was gone again, leaving John to stare at the table. Vaguely he realized that Angelo must have slipped the little candle onto the table without him noticing, but it was just fine. He smiled ruefully at all the people that had assumed they were a couple. What he wouldn't give to have the detective back just so a candle really made dinner more romantic or Mrs Hudson could tease them about their little domestics.

_"Love is a dangerous disadvantage."_


	4. The Rise of A Great Man

Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.

This is primarily based off of the most recent BBC version staring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman.

* * *

I Hang You Around My Neck

Days continued to roll by until it had suddenly been 3 years since The Fall. Sitting in his chair at Baker Street, John remembered something about the number three. It was the first complete number, having a beginning, middle, and end. But he wondered what end this would bring.

Finally he pulled on his shoes, slipped into his jacket and wrapped the scarf tight around his throat. The doctor skipped his usual visit to St. Barts' roof in order to avoid Mike Stamford trying to fix him up with another flatmate. As thankful as he was for being introduced to the tall detective, John wasn't interested in meeting anyone new.

Once he was staring at the cold black marker, John wondered why he even bothered. He didn't believe in spirits or ghosts, and Sherlock would have scoffed if he knew the blogger talked to his grave. Being called average or predictable never stopped him before so the blond man opened his mouth to speak.

But before he could decide on any words, a sudden gust of wind swept through the cemetery. The doctor hunched his shoulders and pressed his face into the scarf, vaguely wishing he had thought to wear a hat. Carried by the wind, a metallic rattling reached the ex-army captain's ears. The sound was out of place in the graveyard and Watson glanced around for the source.

Off to one side was a stand of trees, branches reaching impossibly wide. Hanging from the lowest branch was whatever had made the sound. John squinted against the sun but could only make out a dull reflection off the tiny surface. Curiosity got the better of the doctor and he limped towards the object swinging freely in the wind. It would probably turn out to be nothing, but he persisted.

As he drew closer, John could make out what looked like a lopsided and lumpy necklace dangling from the tree. A few more rolling steps and he stopped in confusion. The reflective necklace was a set of well worn dog tags. Hesitantly, the doctor reached out to stop their spinning and to look at the name. He let the metal discs go a second later as if he had been burnt.

"J.H. Watson" was stamped in the metal just as he remembered from the months spent in Afghanistan.

The shock of seeing something so unexpected wore off quickly and he pulled the identification discs from the tree. John spun around, scanning the graveyard for any movement. Someone had to have put his tags there and the only person who could have had them was supposed to be dead.

"Sherlock!"

His voice died on the wind and he turned back towards the marker. There was no one in sight in the cemetery but the hairs at the back of his neck prickled. John turned back towards the tree, ignoring his cane as it fell to the grass. Next to the broad trunk stood Sherlock Holmes looking for all the world exactly as he had when they met. The only thing missing was his scarf.

"Hello John."

John's fight or flight response kicked in and he tried to decide if he should punch the detective or not. Instead, the doctor took two steps towards the taller man and embraced his friend. Sherlock was stiff for a moment before slowly returning the hug.

The older man squeezed tighter, wanting to prove it wasn't a figment of his imagination and to make Sherlock stay. "You utter idiot."

"I'm sorry it took so long for you to have your miracle."

Watson didn't even question how the consulting detective knew about his graveside wish. Finally he let go and gave his flatmate space. "Are you back for good or do you have to leave again?"

A faint smile tilted the corner of the tall man's mouth. "Nothing could keep me away now."

The former army surgeon wanted to do a little dance at the words but he kept his feet still. "Let's go home then. You have a lot of explaining to do."

Sherlock nodded in agreement but was stopped from moving towards the taxi by the blogger's raised hand. "Wait, this is yours."

John removed the scarf from his own neck and held it out. Once the blue cloth was back where it belonged, he slipped the dog tags around his neck. Together they got in the cab and rode in familiar silence towards Baker Street. When they opened the door to their flat, Watson didn't bother to hide his grin.

_"Welcome to London."_

* * *

"So Sherlock's alive." Lestrade finally spoke, putting down his pint.

John merely nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I don't think anyone expected that one."

"I probably shouldn't have punched him." The DI rubbed the back of his neck.

"I don't blame you. I think he was going to lurk around a crime scene to surprise you."

Both men chuckled. "Might still do that to Anderson."

"He'd think Sherlock was a ghost come back to haunt his terrible deductive reasoning."

"Get a couple other officers in on it and pretend we can't see him."

"I'd pay to see that." John took a sip of his beer and let the silence spiral out.

Greg let his gaze wander around the pub for a moment before returning to the doctor. Watson was staring into his pint as if it held the answers to everything. "You alright?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" The answer came too quickly and John sighed. "I'm- relieved that he's alive but there's still something wrong."

"I thought he explained how he did it."

"He did, I get that part, but I just don't understand why he did it."

Lestrade saw how tightly the younger man's hands were clenched. "That Moriarty creep left him no choice."

"It's Sherlock though, he could have thought of something else. He didn't have to throw himself off a ruddy great building." John finished his drink and waved for another.

"He did what he had to do so he could stop Moriarty. There wasn't time to think of another way out of it."

"He made me believe he was dead for three years!" The blond slapped his hand down on the table in frustration.

"John, there was a gun to your head." Greg tried to sooth the angered doctor.

"And yours and Mrs Hudson's, he said."

The inspector shook his head. "If it was just mine and Mrs Hudson, he wouldn't have jumped."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you know how his brother and I got him off the drugs?"

John frowned. "Don't change the subject."

"I'm not."

"No, he doesn't talk about anything before meeting me." Watson grudgingly went along with the DI's question.

"Exactly what I'm talking about. Mycroft and I threatened to take away his work if he didn't stop."

_"Without the work, my brain rots."_

"He's not completely stupid, he knew it'd kill him eventually." The ex-army surgeon dismissed the implication.

"You know how weak his sense of self preservation is at the best of times, running after murderers and chasing killers all the time. He was a junkie, but he wouldn't give up his work for the drugs."

"So what?"

Lestrade wanted to roll his eyes in exasperation but he leaned closer over the table. "Sherlock Holmes gave up his work for you when he stepped off that roof."

John blinked. And blinked again. Then a third time, just for good measure. "No, he's too selfish to do something like that. Why else would he have said what he did?"

"Because he wanted to keep you safe." Greg stated it like it was a fact of the universe.

"That doesn't even make any sense."

"To Sherlock it does. If you thought he was a fraud, no one would try to use you against him. Moriarty knew you are his only weakness."

"Sherlock doesn't have weaknesses like that."

"Did you see he wouldn't let you out of his sight at Baker Street? I'm honestly surprised he let you come out to the pub."

"He has one of his homeless contacts watching the place." John had watched the young girl peek out of the alley across the street for the last hour.

"John, you bring out the best in him. You make him human in ways no one else ever has. Hell, within 24 hours of meeting you, he was looking to you for confirmation that something he said was not good and then in Dartmoor. He even gave up the nicotine patches because you asked."

When the doctor didn't move to speak, Lestrade went on. "You know he never killed someone before?"

"Most people have never killed anyone."

"He killed for you while he was in hiding. Repeatedly." As an officer, Lesrade should have arrested the taller man as soon as he was told the truth. "That sniper in the alley, Sherlock killed him because he was targeting you."

John Watson was dumbfounded. While he turned the revelations over in his mind, his left hand slipped under his collar and fingered the dog tags. Sherlock had worn them while he was gone, as a reminder of what he had sacrificed and what he was fighting for. The doctor suddenly realized that the detective did have a heart after all.

Greg sat back as he watched his friend understand the enormity of what the detective had done for him. He didn't miss that Watson had suddenly started wearing his old army dog tags and the scarf was suddenly hung back with Sherlock's coat.

John chuckled suddenly, eyes lighting up for the first time in years. "Do you remember what you said to me that first night, after the drugs bust?"

"That Sherlock is a great man?" He wasn't sure if he'd ever spoken truer words.

"Hmm, I think he might even be a good one."

They raised their glasses and toasted the consulting detective before downing their drinks. It would be like going back to a chapter of their lives they had already closed and yet different. Too many pages had been turned to find exactly where they had been. But maybe it wouldn't be too bad to start a new chapter.


End file.
